05.21.07
The Writes of Women (Erica Jong, Anaïs Nin, Colette)
by Anais Nin
“The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say.”
“If
you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing,
or sing in writing, then don’t write…”
“It
is the function of art to renew our perception. What we are familiar
with we cease to see. The writer shakes up the familiar scene, and, as
if by magic, we see a new meaning in it.”
What You Need To Be A Writer
by Erica Jong
…to be
a writer
what you need
is
something
to say:
something
that burns
like a hot coal
in your gut
something
that pounds
like a pump
in your groin
and the courage
to love
like a wound
that never
heals.
by Sidonie
Gabrielle Claudine - Collette
“To write! It means the lengthy dreaming
before the spotless sheet; the unconscious scribbling, and the idle play of the
pen as it circles round and round a blot, and nibbles and scratches at the
inaccurate word, till it is bristling with tiny darts, ornamented with feelers
and legs, and finally, losing its legible word-from, becomes transformed into a
grotesque insect, and as rapidly converted into a fairy butterfly.
To write! It means the rapt, hypnotized
gaze, caught by the reflected window in the silver inkstand. It means the
burning of divine fever on cheek and brow, while a delightful death chills the
hand that chases words upon the paper. It means oblivion of time, the idle
nestling in the corner of the couch while yielding free reign to a very riot of
invention. It means emerging from the debauch all tired and stupefied, but
already richly rewarded, and the bearer of great wealth to be poured slowly out
upon the virgin page in the circlet of light sheltering under the lamp!
Oh, to write! To pour out furiously all the
sincerity within one on the tempting page, swiftly, quickly, till the hand
struggles, stumbles, is exhausted by the impatient god that rides it so hard!
And then, next morning, instead of finding a golden branch burst into bloom in
one flaming hour, to gather only a withered briar—an imperfect blossom!”
